


With Shaking Hands, Reset the Clock

by 144_bees



Series: We begin in the dark [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Rewrite, Character Study, Ding Dong The Bastard's Dead!, Ed Gets Dunked On!, Ed's there too i guess, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Moving On, Negative Thoughts, One-sided feelings, Pining, Psychological Trauma, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Kristen/Lee, basically a rewrite of kristen's arc, compulsory heterosexuality, shit gets dark before it gets better but i promise it does
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-15 04:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16055357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/144_bees/pseuds/144_bees
Summary: The one to kill Tom Dougherty isn't Ed, it's Kristen.





	With Shaking Hands, Reset the Clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is obviously au to the show so uhhh hardly any dialogue lifted and fuck canon continuity amiright
> 
> +++
> 
> The creature lunged, I turned and ran  
> To save a life I didn't have  
> — Hozier

The day goes like this.

Tom drops an uncoordinated kiss on her cheek.  
"Have fun at work, Krissy!" he winks, casually palms Kristen's behind and finally leaves for his desk.

Kristen waits the proper few seconds to avoid looking like a prude before smoothing out her skirt. She walks to the records room on autopilot, heels softly clicking down the stairs.

The door closes with a gentle swishing sound, securing her in the GCPD's slumbering heart.

She doesn't like the nicknames. The ones Tom gives her, at any rate. Kristen sorts through her desk as she dwells on it idly. Tom's big loud presence never strays far from her thoughts, even in the man's absence. There are many things Kristen dislikes though, her own fault for having such a critical personality.

She appreciates his possessiveness but hates how jealous he is. Has learnt to tolerate Tom's assumptions, be wary to correct them.  
He makes up for the bad, of course. Most crucially, Tom wants her, gaze always heavy with want on Kristen — and it's terribly exciting how he watches her, intense, ravenous. Feeling desired is all she's ever wanted, Kristen reminds herself whenever it feels like he's mentally undressing her in the middle of their workplace.

She doesn't have to worry about that here, Tom rarely visits the records room. Few people do and most are brusque and to the point which suits Kristen just fine.

Her first real human interaction of the day comes with her lunch break, when the new medical examiner drops by. Kristen and doctor Thompkins are friends, she's proud to say. Or, well, maybe not quite yet, but they're definitely moving in that direction.

The room doesn't feel as stifling when Lee smiles and suggests they get their lunch in the coffee shop close by.

Outside air is shockingly fresh after the stuffiness of the precinct. Kristen soaks in its crispness and Lee's soothing tone both.

They teeter on the sidewalk's edge, letting the last car rush by as the light turns red.

"Good thing Jim's not here to give the fearsome criminal chase," Lee chuckles.

Her nose scrunches up when she grins at her own joke and the sight makes Kristen smile back before she realizes it.

They find a quiet table in the corner of the cafe and spend lunch in leisurely conversation. It's comfortable, silences between them unlike any Kristen is used to - content instead of anxious, tense or uneasy. Lee just has this effect on people, she guesses.

Funny, too, how much she enjoys talking shop with Lee; lost in their back and forth, she loves her job like she fails to in the mundane reality of it.

"It's not the same at all! For me they're all just data, files... I hardly forget where I work but I barely even see the holding cells..." Kristen fixes her glasses. "I don't deal with offenders firsthand like Tom or- James... or with the consequences, like you and Nygma." She shudders. "All this death... how do you bare it?"

Lee shrugs, sips her coffee.

"It's not that bad. I'm a doctor, after all, and bodies are bodies. Death is what it is, corpses are just patients beyond my jurisdiction."

"Doesn't it make you sad? To think, all of them were living, thinking, feeling people until, well. It's horrible."

Lee covers Kristen's hand with hers. Her skin is so warm, like the rare Gotham sun gave Lee all its care and heat. Kristen is hyperaware of their points of contact, the cool of the rings on Lee's fingers - that squeeze hers, lightly.  
What was she saying?

"Don't let it get to you, Kristen. We're doing a good thing here. Try to focus on that."

"Yes, of course... you're right."

"You know what! Actually, we both do plenty to keep the city's peace and deserve a break. Let's meet for drinks this weekend, what do you say?"

Lee draws back, hands moving with her excitement, and Kristen instantly misses her touch, feels self conscious of her own hand lying awkward and bare on the table. The mention of drinks, too, makes Kristen's thoughts run in two directions. She swallows an eager yes, takes stock of what ifs. Tom might want to stay over the weekend. She doesn't want to sour the mood by going out. And doesn't she indulge in drink a bit too much already? Tom berated her just a few days ago, at any rate.

"Or are you busy?"

Kristen fidgets, embarrassed. How on earth can she explain? She's free and she wants to... spend time with Lee, she really does, but it's just not possible. Not a decision she can make lightly.

"I'm, um," she can't meet Lee's understanding eyes. "I need to check my schedule. I'm sorry, I don't-"

"It's alright," Lee smiles. "The goal is to make you unwind, not stress more. If you can't make it, that's fine. Just make sure to spend that free time taking care of yourself. Rest," She quirks her brow playfully. "Promise, okay? Doctor's orders."

Kristen nods, smiling, always smiling with Lee. She feels a bit foolish, flustered for no discernible reason. Lee's kindness is too much, and aren't they taking too long? The break must be over by now. Good things never last, in Kristen's experience.

"Okay! We should probably get going... Thank you so much for the offer, but I already have plans with Tom..."

"Are you?"

"Am I... what?"

Suddenly, Lee is serious, gaze pinning Kristen to her seat.

"Are you okay, Kristen?"

Kristen's at a loss, pause long enough for Lee to lean back, backtrack, tone apologetic.

"Sorry, that was presumptuous. I didn't mean to pry. You just seem stressed lately, and I wouldn't be a very good friend if I ignored it."

"Oh," Kristen breathes. "Oh, no, I am. Okay. Thank you, Lee, but there is no cause for concern."

Lee's pretty dark eyes remain worried, so Kristen rushes to elaborate.

"Really, I'm a big girl, I can handle myself. And it's nothing - out of the ordinary, that is. Just the usual. You know how work is."

"Not Tom?"

Kristen's chuckle sounds phony to her ears.

"No, he's a dear. It's going well with him, we're very happy. Together."

Lee nods, "Of course, if you say so. I trust your judgement, Kristen."

Lee fumbles with her coffee cup, frowns slightly - in a genuine yet delicate way, like she's not trying to hide it, but doesn't want to offend her friend either. She stands up, picks up her coat and fixes Kristen with an intent look.

"We're friends, so I'm happy when you're happy. But you know you can tell me anything, right?" She hesitates, before adding, "Off the record."

"Thank you, Lee. I appreciate it."

Kristen's smile is tight-lipped as Lee nods again and turns to leave. If she ever grew brave enough to say what she really thinks, all the things that scare her so much there's bound to be a grain of truth to them, Lee is the first person she'd tell. Except she truly, desperately doesn't want to ruin what they have. They are friends, after all, so Kristen keeps her smile on, her mouth shut.

 

\+ + +

 

"Is that a bruise?"

The question is sudden, takes Kristen unawares.  
Though, on second thought, _does it really?_  
Because she's expecting it too, knows (giddy? fearful? hopeful?) she'll inevitably be discovered, the nauseating secret choking her.

Kristen blinks rapidly.  
Exhales, air a cold weight stuck in her lungs sideways.

It's how it always goes, as if there are two of her, shame warring with anger, fear suffocating her spite. She would do anything to deny the bruises, helplessly wills them out of existence, yet they remain her one focal point, center of her world, everpresent; _she is the bruise._

Nygma's voice rumbles in the background. Somehow both white noise and a shock to Kristen's system, barely legible and piercing with every word. This constant confusion, duality, either / or; Kristen could almost cry out of sheer frustration.

"It's not right! He can't can't do this! You _never_ hurt the ones you love!"

 _What the hell do you know_ , the bitter part of Kristen's mind hisses.  
The rest of her is annoyed, lost for words, tired, mute. Edward has good intentions, Kristen knows, but she can't shake the spectre of double vision hounding her: is he sincere? is this a trick, a red herring? his niceness — a warm kind thing or a conniving fake?

But there is something in his eye, amplified by the old fashioned glasses.

"Mister Nygma, it's alright."

"It's not! He has no excuse!"

"Please, stop. Don't."

She recognizes the look, caught glimpses of it before — her own eyes, drunk, broken with self pity and unfairness of it all looking out of the mirror.  
She doesn't know if the man is intuitive, kind to the point of naivete, or- a frightening train of thought. He would've been fluent in her hints then, would understand the tangle of cries for help and snarls to leave her alone, both drowning under silence's unyielding hold.

"Miss Kringle?" Edward's voice gains the pleading quality that tugs on her heart and irritates her to no end.

The man seems determined, eyes rapidly darting to her, off to the side, back to her. He fidgets, obviously not letting the matter go. Dear lord.

Kristen exhales loudly, holds herself together.

"Do not concern yourself, mister Nygma. I have work to do and so do you. I'm perfectly fine."

_And this conversation is over._

It's more of the same after he leaves. A storm rumbling under the skin of a meek tedious bookworm. All her drama, conflict - imagined. Kristen puts away the last of the day's files, each sheet of paper by far more exciting than all of her inner life combined. Undignified, pathetic, senseless, nil.

Time crawls slowly, and the workday is only halfway over when Kristen catches herself craving a drink. Pity Tom planned to drop by today, she muses. Him and alcohol are a bad enough mix, she shouldn't add to it. Unless the wrong thing to do is exactly the right one, the giddy disgusting part of her sizzles. Kristen frowns but smooths her face instantly when the door to the archive opens.

Another officer, another brusque request. At least he doesn't come close, doesn't linger, expect her to laugh at a crude joke.

Kristen sniffles delicately, shunning the bitter thoughts that follow in his wake. She knew what she signed up for with this job and it's not like all the men are bad. Besides, there is Lee, her smiles conspiratorial like she's letting Kristen in on a secret. Always bright and confident, even surrounded by Gotham's finest. Shouldn't friends have things in common? Her and Lee truly are nothing alike. Lee is... well, Lee. And Kristen belongs in this dark forgotten room, an afterthought, surrounded by dust, files and not much else. Well, occasional fun fact of Nygma's, maybe, Kristen thinks with a snort. Her constant source of bemusement. She wishes she could laugh with Edward when he shared them, not at him, but wishes too he never opened his big mouth in the first place.

Kristen sags with automatic relief when she gets home. Slips off the heels and pads straight to the kitchen, her mind's eye on the unopened bottle of wine waiting in the fridge. The bottle is cold, green glass like ice under her fingertips.

Kristen's mind is blessedly empty in the silence of her apartment, a dull but comforting feeling. Finally there is nobody around, no eyes on her, no conversation to follow — just the quiet. She stands on tiptoes to get a wineglass from the drying rack. It's one of the special ones, part of a new set — smooth and squeaky clean.  
Glass full, she inhales deeply, staring at the fragrant drink. It doesn't exactly come as an epiphany (again, her life is not nearly dramatic enough), but there is an internal tsking noise, a snide _you shouldn't have done that_.

Tom would probably be pissed she started without him. Not that he needed much to get him going.

Putting the anxious suspense on the back-burner, Kristen undoes the top buttons of her blouse and sips the wine. No matter. That's a problem for future Kristen. She swallows too much at once, grimacing slightly at the sour aftertaste. Future Kristen is such a pathetic loser. Past Kristen, on the other hand, sure is a bitch. Present Kristen finishes her glass and reaches for a refill.

Love is hard work, her mother always said. But didn't she also tell Kristen that it was the most wonderful thing in the world? Didn't Kristen, young, bookish, mousy Kristen read countless books about love from first sight in high school? One page claimed love was a miracle, magic, salvation, the next called it a sacrifice, cycle of suffering. Love happily ever ends in tragedy, that's it. Kristen scrunches up her face, angry at the non sequitur. She is alone still though, away from prying eyes and can let herself act (think) a little frivolous.

Frivolity and quiet both end up short-lived, as usual.

"Hello, sweet thing!" Tom hollers. The door slams behind him, causing Kristen to flinch.

Not bothering to take his shoes off, Tom joins her in the kitchen.

"Missed me, Krissy?"

He winks and goes right back to talking, not waiting for an answer.

It's good, she tells herself, a relief that the flat doesn't feel as silent anymore now that he's here. Tom is boisterous and present and Kristen should find comfort in his company. He's reliable, brave, a real man. She's lucky to have him. When Tom tugs off his tie and grins at her, Kristen gingerly smiles back.

"One hell of a day, babe!" Tom says, leaning an elbow on the counter. "Finally arrested that son of a bitch that robbed the department store last week. The boys roughed him up real good, the bastard cracked in no time, you should've seen it," he chuckles proudly. "Went for a drink to celebrate. You're not mad I made you wait, are ya?"

Tom's hand lands heavily on Kristen's shoulder. Thick fingers dip below the neckline of her thin blouse, squeezing bare skin.

Kristen's mind skips like an old record player. She's flustered, she tells herself. Still not used to his passionate touches, even after all this time.

Tom leers. "Started without me? You should be more patient, sweetheart."

The fingers rub her skin, squeeze again, harder. Kristen can't decide if she wants to break away or lean in. She wants this, of course she does. Intimacy, belonging, closeness.

But maybe, one more drink first.

"Why so quiet, babe? Not glad to see me?" Tom shakes her a bit, tightens his grip. Kristen's glasses slide down her nose. Tom's other hand leaves the counter, rests on her hip, fingers splayed.

"Just tired," she says.

The shoulder doesn't hurt exactly, sensation grounding.

Men like him don't know their strength. Not everyone understands, but Kristen does. Tom is lucky to have her too, she's sure. They are a good match. She quietly starts estimating if the new bruise would be visible from under her collar.

Tom doesn't share her carpe diem attitude tonight, however, growing steadily more frustrated by the minute.

"Come on, be happy for me! We're celebrating!" He's loud, making up for her quiet.

Kristen nods, "Congratulations, Tom."

Pleased, the man grins, "That's the spirit! You don't mind if I finish this, do you? Drunk really doesn't suit you, Kris," he declares, grabbing the bottle and taking a long swig.

It was good wine, but she doesn't mind. There is more in the back of the cupboard. And anyway, she wants to give, be generous for him, unconditionally. He's still smiling, ignoring her in favor of the wine, and it feels like Kristen scored some kind of points. She'd like to cash them in now, please. It's been a tiring day and she wants to change, put her day clothes away. To do that, she needs an excuse to leave Tom's side. She's trying to come up with a good one, when Tom decides she's been silent for too long, again.

"Speaking of, I know another way you can congratulate me..."

Tom's hand lands unerringly on the growing bruise - he doesn't mean to, of course, but it really hurts this time. He presses hard enough for Kristen to catch his meaning. She gulps a breath, suddenly nauseous.

"Of- of course," Kristen stumbles over words, stumbles from under Tom's hand further into the small kitchen. He probably means a nice dinner and, well, she's kind of tipsy and tired but she can do that, no problem.

Tom is moving behind her but Kristen busies herself with rummaging through cooking paraphernalia: bowl and whisk, a spatula, a knife, a cutting board... she's reaching to close a cupboard, when Tom suddenly appears beside her, roughly seizing her hand.

"You know I don't like you being a smartass," his tone is level but there's a smile hiding in the corners of his lips. What's so funny?

"I'm just- you said yourself-"

Tom squeezes her hand. "Don't," he repeats the motion, and Kristen's sight starts blurring slightly, "put words in my mouth, babe. That's not what I meant and you know it. Don't you?" He smirks again. It's me, Kristen thinks, trying to blink away the wetness. _I'm funny._ Tom's voice brings her back, "Tell me what I meant, Krissy. Don't be shy."

"I don't-" Another squeeze. "Ah! Tom, please-"

"Please, you say? Really gagging for it, huh?"

He shoves her and Kristen's back collides with the counter, but all she feels is relief because her wrist is free now, pain stopped, thank god. She shivers, trying to find purchase, the hand not pulsing with aftershocks clutching uselessly at the cluttered counter. It's hard to concentrate on what's happening, so she forces herself to pay attention. Tom looks smug, like a satisfied cat, but there is lazy anger there too.

"Look," it's hard to listen through the blood rushing in her ears, "it's been a long day. First, the prep was a jackass, okay? It really hurt when I punched him. Gordon chewed me out for not doing goddamn paperwork to his liking - and then that fucking freak tried to defend your honor or something. You're not fucking him behind my back, are you?"

She shakes her head hurriedly, but he just goes on. "I think, maybe you are, is the thing, babe. You're so stubborn lately, I bet it's either cheating or drinking too much, and I expressly told you not to drink, remember? See what you're doing to me, Krissy?"

Tom talks and talks but Kristen can't hear him anymore. She can't believe it's happening again. It doesn't matter if she does what he wants or disobeys. Nothing matters. That's what's so funny. Nygma's concern is funny. Lee's tenderness is funny. The day goes like this. One long joke - and a punchline. Mean Kristen giggles, _literally_.

Tom stalks closer and she sees tension in his face, his figure. She thinks she knows what comes next, but then-

"You shouldn't test my patience, Krissy. I love you, remember? Be grateful. I'm the only one who does."

Something inside her snaps.

Familiar images rush before her eyes: full lips in a pretty grin, anxious eyes behind lenses, perpetual concerned frown, smug smiles, crude hands, fingers, fists, _reaching-_  
Kristen overflows, recollections feeding her defiance until it bursts forward.

Tom gurgles. Hands grasp at her arms, clothes, thin air.

It doesn't feel real. Kristen knows real very well, in all its tedious monotony, but right now she is lost. She is Kristen, is a body, a mind, a file in her archive, an investigation in progress.

Her thoughts keep drifting and every groan, whimper and wince from Tom are hitting her anew with the sense of here and now, of her hands white knuckled around a handle slick with blood.

She sees nothing, she sees all. Drowning in a viscous blur and simultaneously aware of every millisecond, like a camera shatter going off rapidly.

She watches Tom's face contort in slow motion: anger to shock to _nothing_.

The kettle whistles — or maybe it's the air leaving her heaving chest.

Her insides squirm. She wants to laugh, to cry, to run away and hide, maybe on one of the shelves in the records room, they'll never find her there. _Or would it be the first place they look?_

Whole body trembling, Kristen very carefully carries the knife — the murder weapon, now, in neat font of her future file — to the sink. Washes her hands, wipes smudged glasses.

Her phone is exactly where she left it. Kristen always liked to be orderly.

In all honesty, she's not sure if she has the number — why would she? Kristen never asked for it, never was curious or interested. The mean, angry part of her persists, makes her scroll the list of contacts and feels dark satisfaction when her manicured finger pauses over a "mr e nygma".

Of course he would. The meddlesome man. The either or raises its ugly head again but Kristen doesn't have time to parse through an internal dilemma right now. Who cares if this is a breach of privacy, another drop in the groaning bucket of her patience, or a helping hand, eagerly extended.

Kristen is exhausted. Every breathe takes more out of her as she dials the number and almost immediately hears the chipper voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello, mister Nygma," she says without inflection.

There is a gulp, a cough, a stutter. "Miss Kringle? How- that is, may I help you?"

Past Kristen would smile wickedly, the bitch. Kristen of here and now just closes her eyes briefly, refuses to think of how much worse she is than that other her, herself. But needs must. She presses on, voice even, chest heavy, no hint of emotion on her pale face.

"You actually can, mister Nygma. In fact, I would appreciate your help very much," she pauses, before adding, "Are you free tonight?"

There is shuffling and crackling on Edward's side before his answer comes, slightly out of breath and higher pitched than usual. "Uh, yes? Yes, I certainly am!"

"I'm glad. I need your... assistance. It's quite urgent."

Nygma, predictably, starts babbling, falls all over himself offering his help. How would he react, she wonders. Is he so used to seeing death by now he wouldn't be shocked? Would he help her out of loyalty, of fear, or run screaming? She gives Edward directions to her apartment, a damsel and a monster rolled into one.

Her bones feel heavy, skull a lead weight. Kristen can't stand another second of uncertainty, incessant push and pull of her thoughts. No more beating around the bush. She asks the question she's been carrying deep inside her chest, muzzled, since forever.

She says, "Mister Nygma. Can I trust you?"

He pauses, thinks. Good. Kristen has no patience for empty words.

When Edward answers, his voice is painfully earnest. "Of course. I would never let you down, miss Kringle".

She disconnects the call without another word, wishing the sentiment didn't feel quite so one-sided.


End file.
